When Nakiri Senzaemon heard those footsteps, his breathing quickened, his hands and feet turned cold, and his face involuntarily grew paler bit by bit.
Nakiri Erina also felt uncomfortable. The footsteps were not loud, but they were like drumsticks striking her heart, making her entire body shiver with dread. It felt very unpleasant.
A trace of speechlessness flashed through Rowan's eyes. He had not expected this appearing yokai to be quite good at creating atmosphere.
Although it had no effect on him, Medea, or Nero,
it exerted a powerful pressure on Nakiri Senzaemon, Nakiri Erina, and even the zashiki-warashi, Kazuko.
"Umu. Praetor, this sound is truly unpleasant."
At that moment, Nero suddenly spoke, breaking the atmosphere the footsteps had deliberately created.
Nakiri Senzaemon, Nakiri Erina, and even Kazuko felt as if they had been pulled out of a cold ice cave. Their breathing returned to normal, their bodies began to warm again, and even the pressure in their hearts disappeared with it.
The three of them looked at Nero gratefully.
Nero raised her head and looked over.
At the entrance of the Nakiri residence, a figure condensed from the darkness and slowly walked in.
He had neatly combed white hair. His aged face was like a statue of a Wisdom King in an ancient temple. His eyes were deep, as if they could see through all illusion.
His steps were calm. With every step he took, the floor beneath his feet quietly cracked with spiderweb-like lines.
The long sword hanging at his waist had not been drawn, yet an invisible sharpness had already spread out.
Rowan recognized him. This seemed to be Kidomaru.
A subordinate of Hagoromo-Gitsune.
After Kidomaru walked in, he stopped, as if waiting for something.
The earth suddenly trembled, emitting a dull and powerful vibration, like a battering ram striking a city gate.
Another yokai appeared. He wore a kimono and had a burly figure, like a mountain rock that had been given life. Every muscle contained destructive power.
His breathing was as heavy as a bellows, and the breath he exhaled turned into white mist in the cold night.
Most conspicuous was his weapon. It was a giant iron club, carried on his shoulder, flashing with cold light under the illumination.
He stood behind Kidomaru, like an unmoving guardian Wisdom King.
Kairouta. Also a subordinate of Hagoromo-Gitsune.
Rowan remembered that in the original plot, this guy should have been killed four hundred years ago by the nurarihyon, Nura Rihan. He had not expected Kairouta to have survived in this world.
At that moment, the third yokai appeared.
It was a handsome black-haired man, but the left half of his face was made of upright wood. It was his father's gravestone.
And his father was called Shuten-dōji.
As for himself, he was called Ibaraki-dōji.
The three great yokai stood side by side, their gazes sweeping over Rowan's group.
Kidomaru's gaze fell on the zashiki-warashi, Kazuko, behind Nakiri Senzaemon.
"How have you considered it, zashiki-warashi? Will you join Lady Hagoromo-Gitsune's command, or accompany these foolish people to Yomi?"
"Wait."
At that moment, Rowan suddenly spoke.
"Something about this situation isn't right."
Kidomaru expressionlessly looked toward Rowan. His right hand slowly gripped the hilt of his sword, and a sharp aura pressed toward Rowan, as if wanting to split him in two.
Rowan remained unmoved, as if he had not sensed this sharp aura at all.
"I have a question. Although zashiki-warashi are yokai, aside from bringing good fortune to people, they don't seem to have any other special abilities. With the power of any one of you three yokai, you could easily kill a zashiki-warashi."
"Why would Hagoromo-Gitsune send all three of you here? That doesn't make sense."
One had to know that Kidomaru, Kairouta, and Ibaraki-dōji were among Hagoromo-Gitsune's best fighters.
Any one of them could slaughter the Nakiri family.
Yet Hagoromo-Gitsune had sent all three of them here in one breath.
This was like using a fly swatter to kill a fly, but Hagoromo-Gitsune insisting on using a cannon instead.
No matter how one looked at it, something was wrong.
Kidomaru said expressionlessly, "I have no obligation to answer your question."
Rowan sighed. He was not surprised by this. Not everyone had the desire or intention to explain things.
"Fine. I'll look for myself, then. Nero, do it."
Along with Rowan's order, Nero, who had long since been unable to wait, immediately stood up.
"Rise, my skyscraper! Display here the supreme radiance!"
In an instant, the world overturned.
The gorgeous and dazzling Golden Theater that Invites One to Rapture replaced the Nakiri family's large villa and enveloped everyone present.
Kidomaru, Ibaraki-dōji, and Kairouta appeared at the center of the Golden Theater's stage.
As for Rowan and the others, they appeared in the audience seats, looking down from above at the three whose expressions had changed drastically.
Oh, no.
The three yokai.
Kidomaru could not help frowning.
"This is… a domain?"
Ibaraki-dōji shook his head.
"It doesn't quite seem like one, but it appears extremely similar to a domain."
Kairouta exhaled a breath of turbid air, his gaze cold as he looked toward Nero.
"Welcome to my Golden Theater."
Nero spoke in an aria-like tone.
"From this moment on, you three yokai are tools for my amusement."
"If your performance pleases me, I shall naturally spare you."
"If your performance is so dull that it makes me drowsy, then I can only completely annihilate you here."
"I hope you do not disappoint me."
As soon as her words fell, at the center of the stage, before the three yokai, an ancient general wearing armor and holding a great sword slowly appeared before them.
It was the shikigami modified by Rowan, Mahoraga.
Mahoraga's gaze locked onto the three yokai. It roared, and a violent wave of air swept out like a landslide and tsunami.
The huge impact made the three yokai's expressions grow solemn. This guy was not some opponent that could be dealt with casually.
Rowan's voice came from above.
"Kill them."
After receiving the order, Mahoraga stomped heavily on the ground and shot toward the three yokai like a cannonball.
Kidomaru had just prepared to move when Ibaraki-dōji had already acted.
Thunder exploded in the darkness.
Ibaraki-dōji's blade tore through the air, and a blue-white bolt of lightning twisted down like a giant python, crashing fiercely onto Mahoraga's body.
The air was ionized into a scorched smell. Under that blow, the ground cracked and collapsed, and shattered stones flew everywhere like shrapnel.
Mahoraga was immediately blasted away.
Ibaraki-dōji did not give it a chance to breathe. The sword turned in his hand, and a second bolt of lightning had already spread from the blade. This time, three thunderbolts fell simultaneously, like three spears of judgment nailed into the earth.
Mahoraga had just raised its right arm to block when the lightning pierced through its wrist, blasting its entire palm into powder.
Immediately after, the third strike fell. The pillar of lightning struck its chest directly, and with a dull explosion, Mahoraga's upper body, along with its armor, was blown through with a hole. The edges burned with ghostly blue residual electricity.
The ground collapsed. Mahoraga's body fell into the shattered depression, like a pile of discarded charcoal.
Lightning wandered across the surface of its broken body. Every flicker took away part of its vitality.
Ibaraki-dōji looked down at all this from above.
On the sword in his hand, the final bolt of lightning was condensing.
This time, the color of the lightning changed from blue-white to purple-black. That was the sign that the density of the thunder had reached its limit.
The arcs wrapped around the blade no longer scattered wildly, but coiled like swimming dragons, emitting low and continuous rumbles, like a thunder god deep in the heavens brewing the most fatal strike.
He raised his sword.
The lightning illuminated half his face while leaving the other half in shadow. The blade pointed at the center of Mahoraga's remains and released a fatal blow.
Purple-black thunder poured down like a waterfall.
The light swallowed everything.
However, this strike did not completely destroy Mahoraga, leaving Ibaraki-dōji utterly surprised.
"What?"
His pupils trembled as he looked at the scene before him in disbelief.
On Mahoraga's broken body, those charred cross sections were wriggling.
A layer of dark golden patterns spread out from its core, like magma flowing beneath cooling rock crust.
Wherever the patterns passed, the tissues that had been burned into charcoal by lightning began to peel away.
It was beginning to adapt to thunder.
At the same time, Mahoraga's wounds recovered at a speed visible to the naked eye. Even its armor healed along with them.
This could not continue.
After discovering this, Ibaraki-dōji decisively acted. The sword in his hand slashed down again.
This time, the thunder struck the newly formed armor and produced a sharp hum.
Then, there was no then.
That bolt of lightning struck Mahoraga's body like water splashing onto a red-hot iron plate, vanishing completely before even steam could rise.
The lightning could not even leave a single scorch mark on the armor.
Mahoraga stood up.
Its newly grown right hand fully emerged from the wound. Its five fingers slowly clenched, and its knuckles made crisp sounds of bone locking together.
The next second, its eyes lit up.
"Die."
Ibaraki-dōji stepped forward, the lightning on his sword surging to its limit. He held the sword with both hands and poured all his power into this strike.
Mahoraga raised its right hand. It merely spread its five fingers.
The instant Ibaraki-dōji's fierce blade touched its palm, it let out one final unwilling roar.
Then it was casually blocked.
Countless tiny sparks of electricity overflowed from between its fingers, like a swarm of startled fireflies. After flickering briefly, they returned to nothingness.
Without question, Mahoraga had already adapted to thunder.
Thunder could no longer harm it.
Now, it was Mahoraga's turn to counterattack.
In an instant, Mahoraga's figure vanished from where it stood.
Ibaraki-dōji's heart jolted. His blade instinctively turned to the left. That was the judgment made by his battle instincts, honed through countless trials.
But the sword had only turned halfway when a palm had already pressed against his chest armor.
A pure, attributeless force pierced through from his chest to his back.
~~~
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